Yoga for the Modern Time Traveler.

Not since CSUMB's free evening classes of 2004 and 2005 have I practiced yoga. At the time, I saw it as a hip alternative to stretching, something I rarely coupled with my frequent aerobic exercise and strength training. And, of course, the sessions were free. Undergrad, an endless mecca of identity creation, also allowed me to sample all things hippie, so at the time, free yoga seemed a nice complement to an afternoon of thrift store shopping, drum beating, beatnik reading, and granola buying.

More often than not, these yoga trips were aided by, well, the other additive of green living, so it goes without saying that practicing yoga was never really about the breathing. In fact, I largely considered it an incense-doused guided meditation with friends. But, it proved an easy place to give in to the practice itself and enjoy experiencing a new way to let go of the world outside.

Now, no longer an undergrad and no longer desiring incense or thrift store t-shirts, I decided to again partake in yoga, but this time at the weekly yoga class offered at 24-Hour Fitness. Now a paying customer, you'll usually find me sweating it out like the rest of the lifeless souls who decided a gym open 24 hours a day is the nautilus of choice. Actually, I fit in surprisingly well there considering 24-Hour houses some of the most neurotic and image conscious individuals I've ever seen. (I concur with my friend Kaylan--it's a meat market, but you can't beat it for an evening of exercise with a side of people watching.) So there I found myself, in sandals and soft cotton waiting for class, momentarily stuck on the other side of the fence, looking back at a factory of sweating, heaving machines running their equipment into the grimy, dark floor.

The doors opened and saved me from more self reflection on my role as usual sweater/heaver. Setting my water and towel down, I expected some Nazi spin coach with a Madonna head mic to put on a down tempo house mix and start coaching. While setting up, I ran down my history: three years since the last unfurl of my sticky, purple mat; three years of inadequate quad and deltoid stretches pawned off as "warm ups" before any number of 6-10 mile runs or weight room tour; three years holding my yogic breath. This will probably hurt, I thought.

All said and done, the session was both challenging and soothing and exceeded my expectations. This time, feeling less like a hippie and more like an athlete exploring another facet of physicality, I huffed and puffed my way through the hour-long exercise. While considering all the possible differences I could encounter after my three year break, it was the one unforeseen details that proved the largest hurdle.

The adult mind--mine, at least--would not stop running its internal monologue during the session. (Perhaps the neuroses of the gym is in my brain now?) Ideas and thoughts ran on in a seamless line like tracks on a iPod playlist, and my ears rang with, Am I doing the pose correctly? Should I look like her when I do this? Did I pay my credit card bill?

Oh, inhale.

Isn't Friday so-and-so's birthday? What should I cook for dinner?

Exhale.

Oh. She's changing positions. My leg doesn't go as high as hers. Is that a cramp? Ahhh! It is! Shift! Do I need to go to the store?

It took me nearly an hour, but I finally turned the volume on my brain down. I either organized or ignored the clutter and gave in to the breathing and the focus. I am not yet willing, however, to consider yoga the appropriate time to do such business. I have too much hope that it's more of a purposeful time than personal thought time, that it's more about accomplishing the let-go than sorting through things so you can let go. Other time--driving, say--is a time for interacting with mental lists.

As the session ended, I opened my eyes and reentered the well-lit world refreshed and relaxed from roughly seven minutes of changed perspective. I felt pride for finally escaping my own boundaries, despite the time it took to get there. Victory tasted sweet. So sweetly effective, however, that I was a useless lump of thoughtless sighs for the next 90 minutes.

Therein lies the danger of letting go in a world so driven to perform. Once you book your ticket, you find the vacation too enjoyable to abort.

When I finally came to, it seemed I'd gone back to 1989: TV listings revealed another hideous Gong Show remake, Bush held the office of U.S. president, the words "troops" and "Afghanistan" appeared in the same headline, airlines folded, and Batman and the Joker were all the rage.